I remember when he came to talk about the house on Lamartine Street. Mon général was in the full dress uniform of a brigadier general, with a yellow sash across his chest. In 1943—in a cab, it’s true — but in 1943! It would have been better if he’d worn his decorations at the right time — he died at the front door of the house in Lamartine Street, in slippers and a dressing gown with hussar’s tassels that Mile. Foucault had plaited for him from curtain fringes. Poor George, he’d always insisted on preserving his martial appearance, and since it wasn’t given to him to immortalize himself by operations that might have borne his name — the Negovan bridge-head or George’s flank attack — he was forced to pay attention to the personal impression he created. I’m not suggesting he was incompetent — all those mighty military schools in France couldn’t have given poor results. All I’m saying is that George had no luck. In 1914 he was the first Serbian soldier to be captured by the Austrians. And when the Germans attacked in 1941, George was again taken prisoner — this time, the third Serb captured. So much expense and effort, simply to slip from first to third place!
We had inherited the house on Lamartine Street from our father; the whole house was in fact bequeathed to George, but for half of it I had exchanged a much more valuable property. After his return from captivity, however, George announced that he wouldn’t share the expenses of her upkeep. So I offered to buy my brother’s share from him, with the proviso that his tenancy would be rent-free for life. To my dismay, George declared that an officer of his rank couldn’t be a tenant. I pointed out that volens-nolens he already was, since he used that half of the house which belonged to me. He retorted angrily that only on condition that he pay no rent would he cede me his half of the house in exchange for — as he put it — that piece of wasteland at Mačva. I once again became angry: I could be accused of many defects, but never of money-grubbing! Most of all, I said, I would no longer tolerate his brazen refusal to take care of the house.
“We’ll go to court, if need be!”
“You can forget about that tout de suite!” The sash across his chest shone out in the half-dark room. “I’m standing in your line of fire, Arsénie!” (He was fond of juicy barrack-room expressions.) “And I warn you that I won’t spend a penny on the house, especially in the middle of a war!”
“But she has to live, even in wartime!”
“You’ve no room in your head for anything but houses!”
“They deserve more consideration than some people!”
“Don’t you realize they can all suddenly go up in smoke? They and all the rest of us!”
“Tu es fou? Don’t you dare say such a thing!”
“Brother mine, not a single one will be left standing when the real war starts! We’ll destroy everything with barrages or air raids! Everything! Bridges, factories, railways, towns. Everything will be blown sky high!”
“You’re a madman!”
“This house will be destroyed, too! Into dust and ashes. All your goddamn houses!”
If Katarina hadn’t intervened, I’d have assaulted him.
He was at the front door when I ran to the head of the stairs and shouted down that he was just a harmless lunatic — a lead soldier!
“Tu es un soldat de plomb! De plomb—that’s what you are!”
After that, he never entered my house again, nor did I ever again visit that half of the house in Lamartine Street which belonged to me. The very idea — my houses destroyed! My Sophia, Eugénie, Christina, Emilia, Katarina, Natalia, all razed to the ground; my Barbara, Anastasia, Juliana, Angelina demolished; my Theodora and my Simonida reduced to rubble. Really, the very idea!
From where I’m writing, each of them comes within my range of vision: in the glass case to the left of the property owner’s map — on the right is the bureau with their files — are kept their faithful models. Perfect facsimiles to scales from 1:50 to 1:100, made with different model techniques and materials. Simonida, for example, is made entirely of ivory, whereas Theodora is sculptured from Rumanian amber which imitates her warm greenish-yellow color and noble bearing. It doesn’t follow, however, that all the models are expensive copies. Emilia, for example, is molded out of plaster with fine glass shells in the window openings, whereas Christina is built of blond maple with cork floors. For the larger flat surfaces of Juliana, teak is used; and for the pilasters and ornamentation in general, because it’s so easily worked, mahogany. Juliana’s windows are of celluloid. Tiny sheets of celluloid cover Katarina’s windows also, but her walls are made of ash, and the impression of her woodwork is conjured up by light-brown oak.
I feel some discomfort in my rib cage, something like a slight muscular spasm. Probably I’ve been sitting in the same position for too long and the edge of the desk has been pressing against my chest. If it doesn’t stop soon, I’ll have to take my pills. They must be on the shelf, Mlle. Foucault set them out before she left. Really I ought to take them at once, but those drugs make me sleepy, and I don’t dare sleep. It’s stuffy in here. I was wrong to shut the blinds before morning. Perhaps it’s already light. Perhaps I was wrong. What was it that Isidor said? He’d been concerned only with himself, not with architecture. But my concern hadn’t been with myself. I’ve dedicated myself to my houses. To my beautiful But where are they Where are those houses Tout cela est un mod
POSTCRIPTUM
As editor of the manuscript of the late Arsénie K. Negovan and also as the self-appointed chronicler of the Negovan-Turjaški clan, I, Borislav V. Pekić, would like to explain how the manuscript came into my possession.
On June 7 of last year I was summoned to Kosančićev Venac at approximately eight o’clock in the morning. There I found my cousin Katarina Negovan-Turjaški with Mlle. Foucault and Mr. Martinović, their tenant from the basement flat. Katarina informed me of her husband’s death. She had been out of town until that morning. Worried by the student demonstrations, she had hurried home from the spa.